I need to order the book now, as Donald (why, yes, we’re on a first name basis) says that it helps the website make more sense. Of course, he’s bound to say that since he wrote the book, but I think I want to read it anyway. What’s one more addition to my “must read” list?

I like this idea, because while it has parts of it that seem linear and logical, it allows for flow and creativity in a way that excel spreadsheets don’t. It uses story elements and allows you to look at your life as a whole but still move forward with plans.

Has anyone out there already checked this site out? What were your thoughts?

Breakfast is my favorite.  I especially like sweet, morning meals—pancakes, French toast, waffles.  There’s a lot to be said for un-iced strawberry Poptarts.  Okay, a WHOLE lot.

I’m most productive in the mornings, as well.  I like to write then and begin or end art projects before the sun rises.  Huddling in the half-light of predawn, I draw or scribble in notebooks–the smell of paperpencilpen pulling inspiration out of me.

This week, however, things have been otherwise.  I’ve woken on the wrong side of the bed—the grumpy side of my usually perfect Serta.

(And if this image looks familiar, it’s been upcycled from a past post. Too tired to even take another picture.)

I’m turned around and upside-down. I’m pouty-lipped and furrowed brow, frowning my way to a “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad” WEEK, if I don’t watch it. (No, I will NOT be moving to Australia.)*

image via goodreads.com

I’m borderline miserable, but for no apparent reason. I’m pathetic, pure and simple. My neck is soar. My head aches. My mood is in the gutter.  (Maybe making and displaying so much art depletes a person.)

So, forgive this piss-poor, half-assed post (and wish poor Sara well).

Have you ever opened your eyes on the Sealy’s wrong side? Are you a morning or a nighttime person?

And please, for the love of blog gods, make your perky opinions know in the comments below.

Me?

I’m going back to bed————————–

(*If you have never read Judith Viorst’s children’s book “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day,”  I recommend it.)

I find the most “amazing” things when I have the most work. The mindless posts that I’d usually skip over suddenly seem like beacons of enlightenment when I’m trying to put off.. anything.

At least I realize when I’m doing it.

In a desperate attempt to stop,  I walked into a cafe and asked the barista, “Do you have wifi in here?”

“No, sorry, we d-“

“Perfect!”

No wifi = the key to distraction-less work.

The only blog I’m reading this week is focus.wordpress.com.

I find the most “amazing” things when I have the most work. The mindless posts that I’d usually skip over suddenly seem like beacons of enlightenment when I’m trying to put off.. anything.

At least I realize when I’m doing it.

In a desperate attempt to stop,  I walked into a cafe and asked the barista, “Do you have wifi in here?”

“No, sorry, we d-“

“Perfect!”

No wifi = the key to distraction-less work.

The only blog I’m reading this week is focus.wordpress.com.

The event of epic proportions I refer to was a menopausal hot flash greater than any I have experienced to date. So momentous in fact that I had to write about it before I can begin my day.

I feel I need to de-brief and sort of come to terms with the meaning behind this event.

I refuse to use the word suffer when it comes to hot flashes, although at times others may suffer because of my reaction to them as I erratically and vehemently toss off blankets, sheets and every layer of clothing covering my body,  but suffer I do not as they are a natural process of change. In that scenario the cat actually gets the worst of it since she insists on sleeping almost on top of me and only adds to the heat being generated from within my body. Many a night she has been rudely flung to the end of the bed as I scramble to rid myself of even the slightest covering.

This might be TMI for some, but if I’m going to have a flash it seems to come right around 3AM. I have no idea why. Anyone?? I have experienced them during the day, usually while working at my previous job as they have now been going on for the last few years. My body is taking its own sweet time in turning off all the hormones folks and as I am unable to gauge the end of other lady functions accurately due to removal of lady parts years ago I am at the mercy of all of these internal switches turning on and off willy-nilly until they decide they are just done and shut down for the last time.

Most of these illusive hot flashes come and go, waking me with that spreading internal warmth turning to the feeling of being on fire from the inside out without too much incident as long as I can bare all for a minute or two. The fire goes out relatively quickly, I go back to sleep after soothing the offended cat and all is right with the world.

Last night however, actually looking at my clock it was only 2 1/2 hours ago, I woke after the fact covered in so much sweat I am planning on changing the sheets on my bed when I have a moment today and my sleeping attire is headed to the washer post-haste. I actually woke rather befuddled from this one so who knows what was really going on. I was still covered and cat draped so the onset hadn’t been enough to motivate me to start flinging cotton and animal around the room, however this inaction in disrobing might (and I can only guess at this) have contributed to the puddles of sweat that were able to collect in crevices of my body I didn’t even know I had.

When my mind could actually register the situation I realized I was wet from head to torso. My face had beads of sweat running from my hairline to the pillow, and the back of my head was sticky and matted. I refused to raise my back off of the bed but I could easily make out where the rivulets of body fluid had caused adhesion of my t-shirt to both myself and the sheet. The greatest discovery came though when I made contact with the extremely large puddle of liquid between my breasts. Here comes another TMI alert for my sensitive readers.

I do not by any stretch of the imagination have a large chestal area. In fact I have that middle age lady syndrome of armpit breasts that occurs after breastfeeding three children. When us great moms lay down at night our breasts head east and west and disappear somewhere in the area of our armpits. Because of this phenomenon, you know the amount of sweat I encountered had to be of epic proportions if it could actually puddle in what would, during the day, be my cleavage.

I vaguely remember thinking just how gross and amazing that all was at the same time that I blotted the area with my t-shirt before it ran down my neck and over my shoulder to join the back sweat soaking into my sheets. I glanced at the clock. Yep, right about 3AM again. Is 3AM the witching hour for hot flashes or what? Maybe it’s different for every body as said body tries to adapt to the disappearing womanhood it claimed as its own for so many years.

Curiosity has me wondering just how many more of these things I will have before all is said and done. I honestly and quite readily deal with these interludes just fine, and as noted in a previous post, prefer them almost 100% more than a migraine headache. Those have disappeared into another realm thankfully.

I know that some women find this time in their lives to be a struggle. Their sense of self as a woman is changing and depending on their own self concept and the addition of body image, gender identity issues and societal views on aging, it can be rough. I’m doing okay. The cat may think otherwise.

I went to bed early last night with a headache, induced by what I thought was my one semi-small glass of white wine. I awoke this morning with the same headache having advanced to what I now believe is a typical late summer in Washington State sort of allergy, sort of changing weather sinus headache. It has come and gone all day, making me tired, edgy, irritable, often unable to or desirous of holding my head in an upright position, and just in general ticking me off. I didn’t even walk this morning which ticks me off more as I miss that new routine.

I have a paper that needs to be written for Sociology and my plan was to knock it out today and start on some reading for an upcoming class focused on social science research methods. I don’t function with head pain of any kind. I turn into a reticent, bitchy woman when I have pain anywhere above my neck. Because of the medication I take for my arthritis, I have to be really careful about taking anything Ibuprofen related. Basically I can’t jump on that medication bandwagon within twelve hours of taking my 6AM arthritis medicine. That leaves me with Tylenol, which never does crap for me. I bumped up the timeline by three hours and popped 600 mg of Ibuprofen to attempt to dull the throbbing in my eyes and nose. With a modicum of relief, I was finally able to park in front of my computer around 6pm and crank out three pages of the paper. I feel better at least having started it but now I still have to spend time later in the week completing it.

I think it’s rather pointless in the first place, which makes it even harder to write but ironically the second half of the paper will build on this first one and it involves actual qualitative and/or quantitative research which is what I jump into in about two weeks. I did find some time to scan the newest text and realize that it will be more than helpful when I have to write-up the second edition of this assignment.

Back to my head for a moment.

I used to get migraine headaches all the time, monthly like clockwork actually. They were hormonal and horrible. They started when I was about sixteen or so and got worse and worse the older I got. I look back on my twenties and thirties and wonder how I ever managed to work, be a mom or function at all when I had a migraine. Pregnancy was a glorious time because as long as I was pregnant and breastfeeding I never had a headache. I paid the price though, as they would come back with an outright vengeance as soon as all hormonal functions resumed normal. To this day I swear I would rather go through labor ten times over than have a migraine.

I assume those killers are what makes me so intolerant of any headache I may have now. I did finally find a medication that actually helped the migraines but as I have thankfully moved into and almost completely through menopause, the headaches have disappeared and been replaced with hot flashes. Trust me, I will take a thousand hot flashes before I will welcome back a migraine.

So my sinuses ache, making my head ache, making me not want to wear my glasses, making me unable to read or see very much of a computer screen to actually get any work done. I pretty much just sat on my ass all day, which isn’t the worst thing in the world but I don’t like feeling unproductive nor do I like giving in to a stupid headache. I have better things to do with my life.

I think I’m going to call it a night. It’s time to just give up, find a dark quiet spot, put my head on a pillow and hope that by tomorrow morning my face and eyes won’t feel like someone punched me.

Have a good night everyone and thanks for allowing me to whine.

The short and complete story is that it simply was time to move on.

This was my first career:

I was a dental assistant. I thoroughly enjoyed the job. I did not enjoy the employer. During that career I got married and became a stay at home mom which I loved.

This was my second career:

I was, and still occasionally am, a doula and childbirth educator. I loved this job. Unequivocally. This was the best career in the world. One that really fit who and what I am and believe about life and mothers and women and babies. I faced a conflict though as my children grew and this career seemed to want to sneak into special moments that I felt needed to be reserved for my children. I let this career go with much regret but one does what seems right at the time. I have however never quite been able to let go completely as every now and then I run into a couple who seeks my service.

Later, when the little people in my life had grown a bit it seemed time to get back into the working world again and again making the decision that seemed appropriate at the time, I went back to career number one. It actually was relatively easy to slip back into the dental office even after twelve years away. That return has guided two separate jobs in the last fifteen years. The last five of those at the position I just resigned. That position in an Oral Surgery practice was truly the culmination of a dream I had since attending dental assisting school way back in 1978. I loved surgery and I vowed that one day before all was said and done, that I would work for an Oral Surgeon. Through the keen eye of a fellow dental assistant, some luck and my wit and charm, I landed a position with one of the most respected surgeons in our area. This man had practiced for nearly 30 years and had a following to match.

I was in heaven. But this surgery was nothing like the extractions I had been doing for years as an assistant in a general dental office. This was SURGERY.  This was half dental, half medical, with all the trappings of an outpatient surgical practice and the need to be fully capable of saving a life if necessary.

Oh, the things I learned. The amazing surgeries I assisted with. The great staff I came to call my friends. The emergencies that I never expected but as a part of a trained team, handled rather well I believe.

Borrowed from Sclar Center, Cosmetic and Reconstructive Dentistry, Miami

Then the arthritis reared its head, or more appropriately settled in my hands and all that you see above was to be no more. Holding heads to maintain airways, holding and manipulating small sharp instruments, working with tiny parts and pieces became a part of my past. Thanks to some ingenious re-working of my job description, I hung on and was able to stay at the office turning into a jack of all trades.

Then my daughter announced her pregnancy, my original employer made the ultimate and this time final decision to sell his practice and slowly step into retirement and I had some decisions of my own to face. I knew I wanted to care for my grandchild. That was a given and an offer that I refused to turn down. I also knew that I was more than ready to stop being a full time employee. My hands were tired, changes were coming to the office and it seemed rather apparent that fate was standing in front of me telling me to take advantage of what was right in front of my face.

When the decision was made it felt right. An opportunity opened up before me and as I am a firm believer in grasping opportunity as it dangles right in front of your face, I am now employed in a part-time position which allows me to care for my granddaughter; takes the stress and strain off of my hands and in a rather ironic way brings me almost full circle in my career path.

So this is my latest and I believe my last career. Grandma and caregiver to this precious, beautiful baby girl:

and this position one or two days per week:

I will be doing hearing screenings on newborns at one of our local hospitals.

I get to be back in an environment that I love and feel so comfortable with: the postpartum unit of a hospital. I get to work with and educate new parents and most of all I get to interact, even only briefly with new babies. What could be better than that. This position allows me to manage myself, my interaction with families, develop affiliations with hospital staff and probably more than anything, have fun at my job.

It is time to say goodbye to surgery; to dentistry. It’s time to work a little bit less and have a little more time to be a student, to take care of myself, to enjoy my family and to just be. We talk a lot in sociology about “doing” social topics. Doing gender, doing race, doing group dynamics. It’s time to jump on that bandwagon. For the near future I am going to be “doing Debbie”, whatever that may be.

Maybe I’ll write a paper on that subject. The “doing” of oneself. The discovery of one’s personal reality in middle age.  Maybe I’ll just let things ride and see what I discover. I have all the time in the world and I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.

I love to look at the Freshly Pressed section just to see the diverse blogs that are chosen to be “pressed” as it were. I have found some there that I follow, some with interesting content and others that just don’t hold any interest for me.

I wandered into my stats page and found pleasantly that even during the time I was away from this blog, again preoccupied by the little waiting game of pre-delivery of the aforementioned Gisella, that people were still visiting here. Actually the visits were pretty consistent and I am surprised as I was ignoring this blog entirely.  Thus the title of this post.

Just what is it that draws someone into reading a blog post?

Personally, catchy titles draw me in as exemplified by my scanning of Freshly Pressed blogs that have proved either really interesting or not at all capable of living up to the flashy post titles that hook me in the first place.

Is it just the luck of catchy, crafty tags?

Do regular bloggers troll the site, looking for specific tags of interest?

Does anyone actually pay attention to the categories? I suspect so because when I post photos, or music related items in those specific categories I get hits from other bloggers who definitely partake in the same interests.

Why is one of my most regularly read posts the one I wrote about Dana Carvey and his spoof of The Church Lady on old version Saturday Night Live? Why of all posts does this one stand out?

I think I have asked this question before and obviously it still puzzles the heck out of me. I have to say thank you though, to all of you, whoever you are out there that continue to stop by this blog, even when I don’t write anything horribly profound, entertaining, important or correct. Even if you aren’t actively reading the blog, you are stopping by and I appreciate that.

I just wonder though, what is drawing you here in the first place? Where do you find me as you meander through the world of WordPress? What is it that catches your eye, that makes you specifically say to yourself “I think I will see what all this is about” when you scan results in a search engine and one of my tags pops up? Do you return and simply choose to remain anonymous?

My curiosity is piqued and I would love to encourage anyone who actually is drawn here to leave a short note telling me why. Just who am I reaching with this whole WordPress thing…

Same bike a few years later. Younger sister Susan (left) and Kathy (right).

As a slightly older child, I graduated from training wheels to a purple-perfect two-wheeler.  It sported a plastic banana seat that sparkled in the sunshine.  I loved it so much, I sometimes still rode it even as a teenager.

My bike looked a lot like this one. (Image via loveshakbaby.com)

Then came the bikeless years of college, graduate school, my work as a young professional.

But as an adult, I down-graded to stationary versions of the bicycle.  These weren’t purple.  Their seats didn’t sparkle and blink in the noonday rays of indoor, air-conditioned rooms.  I was going nowhere.

Fast.

There’s no guessing how many of those bikes I owned, how many ultimately broke—how many wore out against the endless pedaling toward some distant nowhere.  No place on a map is hard to get to.  They’re no coordinates for standing still.

Maybe I was goalless.  Maybe I lacked ambition.  Maybe the endless pedaling against bipolar disorder kept me immobile.

But when I met Sara I had an actual bike again, one I’d ridden with my nephew in a Fourth of July Parade.

I pedaled and pulled. Sammy sat.

I’d cycled the streets of the downtown neighborhood where I lived.

But I wanted Sara to ride with me.  In fact, I’d been trying for 6 years to get Sara on a bike.

I’d begged and whined, pleaded and implored.  But asking and then insisting fell on deaf-to-the-joys-of-biking ears.

The weirdest part of this, however, is that Sara used to cycle seriously—sometimes averaging 100 miles-a-day on cross-country bike tours.

Sara (far left) as a young college student–

So, it seemed reasonable that Sara and I would bike together.

It could have been our motorbike accident in Thailand that turned her off—or maybe my failed efforts to ride a bike in Vietnam.

Making my bike purchase in Hanoi (Fall 2009)–

But this past week’s visit with yet another WordPress blogger seems to have turned things around—in a literal sense.

When I “met” cyclist-writer Chattermaster, it was again “love at first blog,” as my buddy Miranda has said of our blogosphere-turned-real-world friendship.  Chattermaster spoke in an email about the joys of cycling.  She blogged about it, too.

She suggested in comments that Sara and I do some cycling with her.  I explained why that wasn’t possible—that Sara didn’t bike anymore—that Sara said cycling 60 pounds ago and biking now were two very different things—that the latter wasn’t possible.

Then my Lexington visit with WordPress bloggers Tori and Lisa a couple of weeks ago inspired Chattermaster and “Husband” to visit, as well, whether Sara was willing to cycle or not.

Kathy, Tori, Thomas, and Lisa–in our home on 4th Street–

Kathy (left), Chattermaster (center), and Sara (right) in our back yard. (Thanks to the Chatter Blog for this image.)

Sara and I had a blast chatting with that Master of Chatter and her ”Husband.”  We ate lunch at Third Street Stuff in downtown Lexington and dinner at Cheapside Restaurant—a visit at our house in between.  We talked blogging.  Our new cycling friends  even came bearing gifts.

Kathy (right) with Chattermaster (center) and “Husband” (left), at 3rd Street Stuff–

Chatting at our house on 4th Street–

But even more importantly, these friends came carrying bikes.  Sure it took a tricycle to get Sara on the move again.  But, remember, I had started on a red trike, as well—way back then when I was little, with legs too short to reach the pedals.

Sara on Chattermaster’s recumbent trike–

Kathy trying out trike–

But like legs, people grow.  They stretch.  They reach.  They ride again.

So Saturday, Sara and I got bikes once more—one borrowed, one bought used.  (Thanks to Nancy and Mindy.)

Kathy’s bike (left) and Sara’s (right)–

We took a spin around the block that evening, and Sara spent Sunday cleaning, shining, polishing our bicycle beauties.

So it seems somehow synchronistic, somehow perfect, that my push to meet WordPress blogging buddies in real life would involve our ultimate return to biking, as well. It’s all part of the same cycle—the spiral of special blogging has brought to me.

Plus, as many of you already know, Sara has been the ride of a lifetime.

What kind of bike did you own as a kid?  Do you still cycle, even as an adult?  What metaphor would best characterize your life?

We still await the arrival of our granddaughter who keeps giving mom and dad wonderful little signs that she is gearing up for the big day. She is happy where she is but the changes in mom’s body signal that her world is getting ready to change.

I have talked about my dual role as mom to the expecting daughter and also doula to the expecting couple and it is at times such as this couple has encountered in the last few weeks that both frustrate and anger me in both of those roles.

The mom wants only the best for her daughter, wants this experience to be memorable in a good and positive way. The doula wants exactly the same and both of those roles are extremely cognizant that compromising either mom or baby is out of the question. This mom is incredibly healthy, as is this baby. They are both the epitome of good prenatal care.

My couple chose a birth place and experience that they believe will allow them freedom from medical intervention. Freedom to labor and birth as nature intended. They chose this because it is what they believe. They chose caregivers who should also believe this philosophy. Caregivers who of course must be mindful of the health and well-being of their clients but who encourage a strong and positive belief in the fact that pregnancy and birth are a natural experience to be trusted.

At 40 weeks gestation, full term and showing signs of pregnancy changes and that inevitable ramping up toward labor my couple; my daughter has encountered some undeniably negative attitudes and comments in her last two prenatal visits. Empathy is lacking for the first time mom who is tired, aching, and just done with being pregnant. Obtuse comments do nothing to help when mom wants to hear how great she is doing, how great her baby is doing and who should be made to believe that this is all normal.

Of course these caregivers must do their job, and part of that job is the discussion of outcomes, options and the like in the event that this little girl is just too comfortable where she is and decides to hold her position a lot longer. This birthing place has rules, restrictions and guidelines and my couple understands that. The difficult and frustrating aspect for me as a doula comes in hearing that while not only reviewing these guidelines, a little seed was planted inside mom’s head that will nag and poke and cause self-doubt about her ability, her body’s ability to do what it is meant to do. Words like induction came up, and apparently quickly following that word was the idea that mom’s immediate response would be to jump on the epidural bandwagon and plan for the “fun stuff” of a natural labor and water birth the next time around.

Hearing this from my daughter last night made me livid. It also reminded me very quickly why I chose to stop teaching childbirth education classes and advocating patient options and non-medicalized birth procedures. The wall I faced 15 years ago is still there, still just as strong and still apparently being pushed even by those who are in the business of birthing from a more holistic viewpoint. These are the very women who should be doing everything they can to encourage, enlighten and keep their couples believing that this process is natural and normal yet in the face of something as relatively common as post-dates pregnancy, they cave to the standard medical positions while almost automatically causing defeat and the beginning of a negative spiral in their clients.

Where were the suggestions for natural labor induction? Where was the teaching on acupressure and nipple stimulation and other means to encourage labor? Most importantly, where was the attitude that this is normal, that this baby will come when she is ready and the belief that mom’s body is in full control and knows what to do.

I know this. I believe this and I want my couple, my daughter to know and believe this. I can so understand how hard it is to wait. She was early in her appearance, but both of her siblings decided to hang out in my uterus well past their due dates. Mommy wants to make it better, wants to protect her child, wants to scream at the midwife who is clearly not understanding regarding the emotional aspects of pregnancy. The doula wants to ask the midwife why? Why would you ignore a teaching moment, a chance to bring a positive aspect to this young first time pregnant couple? Why you would be so crass as to completely overlook the doubt and negativity you create with just a few words? You, the midwife, who is supposed to know better, to be a patient advocate at the most precious time in a women’s life.

C-I had to write this today. I had to express some of the frustration I feel for you and for myself as a person who has seen this so many times before and so wanted you not to have to encounter these attitudes. Believe in yourself. Believe in your baby and your body. The time will come and it will be right. Hold onto that above all else.

They seemingly can’t help but click on posts that make outrageous claims, not just about delicate issues such as, say, public nose-picking, but especially on titles that highlight one’s personal nose-picking habits.  Pronouncements like this, they can’t resist.

Readers like titles they don’t expect, titles that make seemingly ridiculous claims in inventive ways.

They like titles that confess sex or sin, titles that admit fat, failure, or an obsessive fondness for Pop Tarts, that picture you, mouth full, Twinkie firmly in fist.

I noticed this with my own blog. For example, last summer when I posted a piece called “It’s Official.I’m Fat,” I had a massive increase in traffic, received a total of 369 page hits, when generally last year I averaged way, way less than that.

Coincidence, you say.

Perhaps, but I think the bottom line is this: successful blogging depends in some significant way on inventive titles, titles that push the envelope.

image via betterbooktitles.com

If you give readers a title they totally hadn’t anticipated or a title that says something they have always thought but never dared say—at least not in public—and certainly not online, where every Tom, Dick, and no-name blogger like me can read it—audiences go weirdly wild.

They love daring, and they love it even more if you do daring well.

This week a post called “Geek Out” was Freshly Pressed, I suspect, because its fun and quirky title attracted editorial attention and audience approval. You can decide whether or not you think the post itself was as successful as the title, but the title was, I’m convinced what won it the recognition.

I’ve also decided though that readers aren’t attracted to outrage for the sake of outrage. They like outrage with a message. And they like a message that is so fundamentally real, so bottom-line authentic, they always knew it to be true on some intuitive level but had never quite conceptualized or articulated it as you have.

In other words, audiences like to be surprised, but surprised by a reality they recognize, by their own, very real truth, an “aha” that’s personal.

Whether we like it or want to admit it, readers love crazy. They love drama. They love posts that are the cyberspace equivalent of train-wrecks. They hate authorial hypocrisy but love posts about hypocrisy itself.

They love stories about ridiculous things happening to prissy people—the germaphobe whose toilet overflows, the preacher who’s having an affair, the politician caught stuffing the ballot box.

Let’s face it, we love it when Donald Trump makes an ass out of himself.

So, if you want readers to “like” your link, if you want audiences to take the next step and scan the first sentence, if you want to pull them in clicking and screaming, use titles they can’t refuse—some wicked words that drive them wild with curiosity and induce some major mouse madness.

What to-die-for titles have you read recently?

Both blogger visits–a literal crash course in the community many discover in this form of social media– have also, ironically, coincided with two of the most monumental accidents either my partner Sara or I has experienced since, say, the Eisenhower administration.

During Miranda’s visit to Kentucky, some of you might recall, my falling, head first, down our back stairway, and landing in a Lexington emergency room with slurred speech and serious head injury—a fall that launched my “Rumble with the Tumble” staircase restoration project.

Well, this week’s visit with Tori and Lisa has somehow managed to happen along side yet another news-worthy event.  It coincided, in fact, with what Sara on her photo blog has called a “news crash”—quite literally in this instance—landing me this time on the evening news and leaving Sara, Lisa, and me in the dark—again, literally so.

The story is this—

Just hours after Tori and her two-year-old Thomas had left Lexington on their way back to Nashville, a freak summer storm crashed a massive maple tree on our 100-year-old Victorian—taking out our electricity, cable, and internet, and damaging our roof, chimney, siding, and gutters—launching my 15 seconds of fame on the evening news—not just on one network’s evening broadcast, but on all three—NBC, ABC, and CBS.

So, below, I’ll let the photos and video tell the story; I’ll share the best images from our visit with Tori, Thomas, and Lisa, as well as the video that aired on our local NBC affiliate.

I swear, it doesn’t get any weirder, any more wacky and news-crash worthy than this—a literal tree-for-all, at least as far as this blogger’s concerned.

It all started off mildly enough, with Tori sipping wine through a drinking straw and the next morning meeting Lisa for the first time on our, then calm and quiet, back deck.

Thomas wanted Mommy Tori to drink her wine through a straw–

Bloggers Tori and Lisa meet for the first time (our back porch on 4th Street)–

We chatted about blogging and Sara shared some of her most memorable adventures in international disaster response.

Thomas continues playing with straws the following morning–

Tori and Thomas play with paper punch–

More play on our library floor–

A single moment of silence–

A delighted Lisa–

Lisa explains the significance of a turtle shell–

Sara and Ralph–

We ate lunch at Third Street Stuff in downtown Lexington, and Sara cooked an amazing dinner of pad Thai—the best combination of hot, sweet, and spicy this side of Chiang Mai .

Kathy, Tori, Thomas, and Lisa–in our home on 4th Street–

Soon after Sara had cooked breakfast for us the following morning, soon after Tori had left for Nashville and Lisa for her day at a national theater conference being held in Lexington, said summer storm blew through.

And, in fact, the photos of its aftermath tell the tale.

Our entire house shook when the tree hit–

We (Lisa included) spent one day and one night with no electricity. Felt like I was back in Haiti. Thank God Port-au-Prince conditioned me to manage under such circumstances.

Sara evaluates the damage–

Where the branch broke–as seen from my upstairs studio window–

You’ll notice in the video below that I’m carrying my terrified Maltese Lucy in a black, backpack carrier and leading an equally frightened Ralph on a leash—a video that aired on NBC that night, one Sara’s father said ran three times during a single evening broadcast.  Must have been a really slow news day.

http://www.lex18.com/videos/possible-lightning-strike-causes-tree-to-hit-house/

Networking with other bloggers may not cause trees to fall on your ol’ Kentucky home, but if you feel uninspired, doing so can crash your comfortable, if sometimes boring, blogging style.  And if you can’t meet other bloggers in person, begin by commenting on other posts that speak to you, that cause you to cry or laugh or try new things.  You’ll make new friends, if not the evening news.

So why not have fellow bloggers visit your home and launch a tree-for-all on your, once calm and quiet, writing life?  In lieu of literal visits, how have you welcomed other bloggers onto your WordPress home page?  How have other bloggers inspired you?

Sorry these blogger visits and tree accident have kept me away from your amazing posts for nearly a week.  I should be back to regular reading tomorrow.  I’ve missed you!

My partner Kathy has relished spending time this week with a couple of her visiting writer friends.  I’ve enjoyed overhearing them talking “shop” — impressed with their passion and sympathetic to their common struggles.

Lisa, Thomas (Tori’s son), Tori, and Kathy in our back garden (L to R)

“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”
~ Maya Angelou

Stay tuned for more on my visit with Lisa and Tori early next week.  Tori and her son Thomas headed back to Nashville after breakfast this morning.  Lisa will be here till Sunday.  After that I’ll be back reading your amazing posts as usual.  Sorry to be away this week.

There is no way to temper that aged mellowness when it comes to waiting for your first grandchild to make her appearance. I know that my pregnant daughter will read this and I also know that while my impatience is great, hers far surpasses anything I am feeling or wanting at this point. Hang in there sweetie-we must face facts-WE HAVE NO CONTROL.

Thus, the writing prompt for today is this:

Just how do you handle moments, or great spans of time,when that virtue of patience has abandoned you?

I honestly do think the concept of patience is born out of a need for control. Patience truly teaches one that while we may like to believe we have control over aspects of our daily lives, that entire concept might be a joke. All the sociological theorems tell me that we are the product of our society and our society is made up of individuals who interact and influence everyone else who claims membership in human society. The sociological concept of “the self” and how that self functions is based upon every single thing that happens around an individual every day.

This concept then should indicate that when I feel impatience because others are not functioning in a timely manner, at least in my opinion of a timely manner, the feelings of frustration or desire to bring about change should be wiped from my emotional register because I am simply one player in the game of interactive society. Even if I could bend the social interactions of the majority, the fact is that there will always be someone, somewhere who through their actions, rather intentional or not, who will cause a glitch in my ideal.

Right now, that someone is my precious, yet to be born granddaughter. In the minute, micro social world that is our immediate family unit, this one little person, along with some pretty important maternal hormones, are exerting their own form of control over the logical process that screams out “It’s time to be born!”

In this moment, my choice to handle this growing impatience is to send this little letter to sweet baby girl Randazzo.

Dearest Granddaughter,

Your mommy and daddy have so carefully grown you and nurtured you for 39 weeks. We know how safe and warm and secure you feel inside your mommy’s belly, but the world is waiting to meet you. Your mommy and daddy are tired, mommy most of all. We long to hold you and cherish you and see just who you are and start on the journey with you to see what you will become. We are impatient and we admit to that. It is so hard for us to wait, even one more day. Mommy feels your tiny hands and feet, stretching and pushing and seeking space. We are all here, waiting to love you even more than we can possibly imagine, even more than we already do.

It’s important that you always listen to both your Grandma’s, and this one is saying, “It’s time to come out baby! We’re all waiting anxiously to meet you. Hurry, we are so impatient. Come out baby…”

Admittedly, the place needs tidying—a sponge, a mop—

“Backhoe is more like it!” Sara yells from the studio I can’t get to.

You see, a stairway separates us—the one I fell down more than a month ago, the one I’m renovating with paper and paint, protecting with polyurethane, the “fast drying” variety, which takes merely days, instead of decades, to dry.

The last 3 steps completed to date–

Wet spots make it nearly impossible to traipse up or down.

Talk about a trip hazard!

So, upstairs, where I can’t get to, Sara’s cleaning, and there I’m afraid a frenzy of house-keeping enthusiasm will tempt her to trash my crafter’s valuables— my jars of buttons, my Coketabsbottleslids.  I’m, justifiably, afraid a fit of cleansing crazy will turn her tidy into toss—end in an untimely and unfortunate paper purge of junk mail, labels, lists—

“And empty cat food cans,” Sara screams from somewhere over head.

Okay, yes, I saved a few cat food cans back in my feline-loving days, but like the stairway I’ve redeemed, it’s all been transformed into art, literally, in fact:

In the meantime, I’ve been downstairs cleaning, preparing for the arrival of my blogging buddies Tuesday—Tori (“The Ramblings”), driving up from Tennessee and Lisa (“Woman Wielding Words”), flying in from Massachusetts.

I’ve swept, scoured, scrubbed—discovering more dust than any WordPress-worthy blogger has right to.

I’ve shined the stove.  I’ve pledged the surfaces, promising Sara upstairs that I’d reform my down and dirty ways.  But I’m a collage artist, a mixed media, paper lovin’—

“Shit-lovin’s more like it.”  I hear Sara’s echo from above.

It’s true.  I tend to collect stuff—stuff that kindly collects dust in return, the upcycler’s inevitable thank you.

It’s true.  I’m elbow deep in paper, dust, and dirt, but sometimes you have to scrub a bowl to serve a meal.  Sometimes it takes a little dirt to make a better blog.  Sometimes we write grit.  Sometimes we write grime.  But once the writings polished, the comments (or in my case, visiting bloggers) will arrive.

How do you house-clean your writing before pushing “publish?”  What seeming trash, have you upcycled into treasure?  Have the comments, we as bloggers treasure, ever transformed in actual friendships for you?

Note:  If you will happen to be in the central Kentucky area (Lexington, Louisville, Cincinnati, Knoxville) on Wednesday, Tori, Lisa and I would love you to join us for lunch at Third Street Stuff (downtown Lexington).  If you’d like to come, please email me at kownroom@yahoo.com or leave a note in the comments below, and I’ll be in touch with more details.

Please forgive me if I’m not reading your amazing posts this week.  I’ve got actual, in-the-flesh bloggers in town to entertain.  I’ll be back to the virtual world as soon as possible.

We are pretty black and white around here. Either it’s rainy, gray and semi-cool or it’s hotter than hell. There just isn’t a whole lot in between.

This is the predicted temp for today and tomorrow:

Image courtesy of eduplace.com

I personally consider that hotter than hell. When my skin feels like someone tossed me into a saute pan and cranked up the burner to full blast; it’s hot. When it’s 12:20 and I can’t sit on my deck anymore, even in the shade; it’s hot.

As a true Pacific North westerner, we must complain. We are 70-80 degree folks in this part of the country. We love our outdoors, our ocean and our forest land, but we love it in that perfect weather range that falls between a sunny, mild 70 degree breeze and a just toasty enough, almost too bright but glorious 80 degree span.

Ninety five percent of us simply do not know what to do with temps that reach this high. We ask ourselves, “Should we just go for it? Cook ourselves until we are so done we have to fill our bathtubs with ice water and lurk in the dark caves that are our bathrooms?”

We anticipate truly rough nights; sleepless nights filled with sweat and stickiness, and the inability to breathe while we seek just a few moments of peace and rest. We know morning will come all too soon and the unrelenting heat that never quite goes away will return in full force.

We long for this:

Courtesy of mrnussbaum.com

But our reality makes us feel like this. All charred, and tight and wrinkly and desiccated and way over-cooked.

Courtesy of ifood.tv

It’s almost time to shut our windows and doors, hibernating in our airless homes hoping to sustain some slight cooling until we do it all over again tomorrow.

Is there anything you don’t share on WordPress.com?

I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit lately and the answer for me is that yes, I keep some things out of the world of WordPress. Why you might ask?

I am not big into linking this blog with every social networking site known to man, but I am linked to Twitter and Facebook. Originally I chose not to link to any outside resources, but I realized rather quickly that my readership was growing by nearly zero. Twitter and Facebook were two relatively easy sources for me to get this blog, as well as my second personality at The Perpetual Student, out to a wider audience, or at least as a means to annoy my contacts on Facebook with my never-ending blog posts. I know, I am not claiming to be a writer by any means. We all know from this post at TPS what it truly means to be a writer. I do however like to think that I might be reaching a few folks who find some of what I have to say interesting, amusing or just a way to pass some time waiting for their laundry to dry.

However, the people who read this blog are varied. Some of them even read both of my blogs. They are friends, family, other bloggers, co-workers, people who know me well and others who really know little about me except through this blog.

I have attempted at times to be a little edgy. I have attempted to come forth with opinions that may, to some, be controversial. I have noted on some posts that what I am about to discuss may not be to everyone’s liking. I have admitted to religious viewpoints that some would find downright and completely offensive. I stay away from politics and political opinion here as I tend to do in my life. I try not to openly criticize or complain or whine about anyone that may read this blog.

I am also human. Some people who read this blog irritate me, offend me at times, make me shake my head in perplexed wonder, make me want to scream in frustration even. But they know me, and I am not at a point on any comfort scale to voice my honest reactions to things that they do or say or behaviors they may exhibit or attitudes that I find obnoxious.  I have to live with, work with, talk with, and just in general exist with 90% of my readers on a daily basis.

I am also interested in exploring topics that many of my current readers might find to be completely unlike the person they know me to be.

Some of my fellow bloggers have purposefully set up their blogs with anonymous authorship. That idea is growing on me, but for now I personally sensor some of what I say here.

Bloggers, are you completely honest and open, and if not, why?

I’ve been fascinated for years by the notion of place and the impact it has on who we become and have struggled since last summer regarding the scope of spaces to write about in my memoir—with whether my book should end when Daddy died in 1981 or continue into my adulthood, addressing my struggle with bipolar disorder (multiple stays in psychiatric hospitals), and, perhaps even, exploring the places I’ve lived more recently—like Vietnam and Haiti.

It seems inevitable that current struggles with telling my story would force me to readdress scope, since events that have happened more recently are easier to remember and write about.  And it seems important to remind current readers, many of whom weren’t around last year, that one of the places I’ve considered writing about in this book (even if only by way of preface) was the government housing I lived in twice as an adult.  I’ve wondered how that government-provided place has figured in mapping my current internal landscape, especially since my father’s involvement in organized crime made me, as a child, consider government an enemy to our family’s domestic well-being.  (Remember FBI agents, when they raided our house, literally broke down the front door, more often than not.)

One such government-subsidized complex was Briarwood, where I lived from 2001 till 2005–a place I began writing about last summer.  Below is a scene I wrote at this time last year and want to revisit in the context I outline here.  The question is whether my memoir should include these kinds of stories (maybe by way of preface or postscript) or whether these belong in an entirely separate book, given that these places, both defy the stereotype many have of public housing, and may have reimagined my own internal notion of government as bad guy.

The mostly elderly and disabled residents of Briarwood, specifically, were an easy group to get along with. No crime, no noise—not even any walker or wheelchair races in the hallways. If anything it was too quiet—a place where the biggest event of the day was the arrival of the mail carrier, who was greeted 6 mornings a week like a cancer-conquering hero—the bearer of tidings from the outside world. Clearly, this was not a demographic that emailed much or got their news, medical or otherwise, via smart phone—not a tweeting, googling kind of group, for the most part.

However, the most note-worthy events to happen at Briarwood occurred not near the lobby’s mail boxes, but in the second floor craft room—a gathering place for the ladies of building A, where I lived.

These “craft rooms” were more like little libraries with couches, a few comfortable and very 80s-era blue chairs, an artificial flower or two, and, yes, an equally-80s-styled book-case that housed at least 6 dozen romance novels and a few Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies—not to mention a good 30 games and close to 50 jig-saw puzzles—all with pieces missing, of course—because what’s a puzzle without a few holes in the Eifel Tower—Monet’s “Water Lilies” minus a bloom or two?

In Building A elderly ladies gathered in the craft room most afternoons—gossiping, reading, gossiping some more. Some slept from time to time. A few even snored. Mind you, everyone assembled there was born before the Hoover administration—except for me, of course, a child of the Kennedy era. (Yes, I know—generation gap—big time.)

Wigs were all the rage in the craft room. And everyone, besides me in my sweatpants, dressed up. One woman named Evelyn—92-years-old when I moved into the complex—always wore a wig. And she was the best dressed of the group—nicely-styled polyester dresses in navy or gray, with crisp white collars and big brass buttons—usually a fake patent leather belt around the waist.

Evelyn engaged in the only remotely craft-like activity ever done in the history of Briarwood craft rooms. Evelyn crocheted. And she ever only made one thing—over and over. She had to have produced hundreds, even thousands, of them while I lived there. Evelyn made doilies. Usually they were white. Sometimes they were lavender or baby blue, some coaster-sized, others larger.

And like any good crocheter over the age of eighty, Evelyn liked to give her creations away. Nothing honored her more than if, at the end of a snowy afternoon in February, when she said, “Kathy, would you like to take this home for your coffee table?” I responded in the reluctant affirmative—but only after declaring I didn’t dare take another. When I suggested she might like to give that day’s doily to our friend Bea, Evelyn would insist, “Oh but you need a set, dear, especially when you serve sweet tea.”

Bottom line—Evelyn may have doilied me to death, but believe you me, every gray-haired lady in Building A was as well-doilied as me. When I finally moved from Briarwood in 2005, I found more coaster-sized, crocheted circles and almost circles (as Evelyn aged) shoved in underwear drawers and kitchen cabinets than any self-respecting resident of government housing ought to own.

But our dear friend Bea, on whom I tried to foist doilies from time to time—also frequented the craft room. Bea, tall and painfully thin, had to have been at least 5’ 9” before osteoporosis and old age shrunk and hunched her to a mere 5’ 6”, and she couldn’t have weighed more than 70 pounds fully dressed and soaking wet.

Bea, like Evelyn, had obviously, at one time, been a stunningly beautiful woman, a fact betrayed by facial features that shown through despite her age—high cheek bones and big, blue eyes that still twinkled when she smiled.

Bea didn’t wear a wig, and for a woman well into her 90s she had a head of gorgeous, light brown curls. True her hair was largely gray, but she retained enough of the brown to surprise you, since otherwise she looked so old and borderline antique.

Bea was also one of the ladies who slept most afternoons, waking herself up every few minutes with her own overly sized snores.

But then again, Bea never stayed more than 30 minutes at a time, as when nicotine called at least twice an hour, she struggled to her feet from the over-stuffed chair, shuffled her pink-slippered feet across the industrial blue carpet, and disappeared into her apartment several doors down, only to reemerge a few minutes later having snuck a cigarette or two, still insisting upon her return that she had to use the rest room or make a phone call. Never mind she smelled like smoke over the tic-tac she sucked and the Avon she had sprayed post-puff.

But what’s the point of these craft room portraits? Why share these aging lady stories?

The point is this—

These elderly ladies utterly obliterate the image most folks have of government-subsidized housing. These were not crack heads with jeans belted around their knees or welfare moms, screaming, runny-nosed toddlers on either hip. These were not delinquent teens smoking pot in parking lots or dangling younger siblings from balconies.

These ladies were what 90% of the residents at Briarwood were like—kind, considerate, crocheting grandmas who cared about me and the other neighbors they encountered in the craft room.

So, if home is where ones story begins, the question remains whether places like Briarwood should figure in the memoir I write, maybe even by way of preface.  I managed to create a space for myself there–despite the stereotype of public housing.  Briarwood proved to be a place more comforting than chaotic, a place with more crafters than crack heads, a place with ladies who loved me and asked nothing more than to lavish their crochet-crazed kindnesses on me.

Home may be where the heart is, but, inevitably, government housing, at least in this instance, is where the doilies lived as well.

Can a doily-giving government be all bad?   How might this image of government as provider of home, rather than disruptor of domestic peace, have redefined or even healed my inner child’s notion that government embodies evil?  Am I right that stories like these belong in a book separate from my memoir entirely?  How has home figured in your life story.

I must finish a research paper. I am literally halfway complete on this last one. I remember having a great thought and emphasis in which to focus the final few pages before conclusions when I stopped writing a few days ago. Sad thing is that now, of course,  I don’t have a clue where I was headed. Thank God it’s a short paper and my direction was not the only possible direction to go although it was going to be a great wrap up vehicle for this paper. I think it will come back to me, I just need to sit down and do it. For small papers such as this one I have a pretty informal process, so please don’t cringe too much if you are a research professional and are having issues with my process. It works for me. It might not be pretty, but it works.

I have a multitude of flowers in various locations around my yard that have taken a beating in the last few days. They were sadly neglected by me initially, crying out for a small drink, and just when I planned to give them that drink torrential rain and thunderstorms struck. I now have water-logged, half dead plants and flowerpots that look incredibly sad. Those flowers are now crying out for grooming.

I have to find someplace that will enlarge a diagram for me. I have that wedding event in one week. I received the seating diagram just a few days ago and I really want to enlarge it to use as a workable road map for my set-up crew. Right now it’s sort of all jumbled onto a standard 8.5 x 11 piece of paper. Trying to adapt my printer to spit out a larger, workable chart was not going to happen last night mostly due to the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing. I want to take this to a copy center today and see what they can do for me. Then what I really want to do is come home with all sorts of cute and appropriate colored papers, cut out rectangular and round table images and such and attach them in their proper places to create a truly awesome and most likely unnecessary seating diagram. Thus presents the neurotic, Type A control freak to the world. But a little artsy-craftsy indulgence will be great fun and make me feel like I am a professional at this whole wedding planning thing, even though I am not. The pic below is not what I am working with but it did give me an idea.

I am sure there are numerous other activities that I just must do. The reality is that I have the entire week to do them. The second reality is that I just spent ten or fifteen minutes on this post when I could have easily chosen a writing prompt for today and written about it.

I think an appropriate writing prompt for today should be:

What is the one thing that you procrastinate about the most?Do I have any takers on this one?

So, it is that I’ve been sick–not the worst cold I’ve ever had, but at times it’s felt like my own sinus system has set me adrift upon some ”mucus-y” sea or, worse yet, has held my head under. (To see/read my partner Sara’s post about my being ill (“Blogger Down”), click here.)

Clearly, it’s not going to kill me, but there have been moments in the past few days when I’ve almost wished it would.  (I exaggerate only a little.)

Your support, however, your comments and enthusiasm for my current staircase renovation have been my blogger’s equivalent of cure—my Sunkist, my personal Freshly Pressed.

Cold medicine aside, I’m high on nothing other than our shared enthusiasm and my own efforts to avoid drowning.  (Where does all that mucus come from anyway?)

And in all honesty–you readers rock my world—or your comments have rocked my cold recovery, at least.  As soon my sinuses subside, I’ll be back at the staircase project and back with another update.

In the meantime, wish me safe sailing on these sneezing seas of phlegm and fluid.

And, while you’re at it, tell me how blogging has made you feel like part of a caring community.  What’s the biggest bonus blogging or social media have brought to your life?

(Note:  I’m learning to manipulate photos using PicMonkey, and it’s so “sick,” I can hardly stand it!  Plus, it’s free.  It’s fun.  And it’s easy to learn.  I recommend it.)

Well, that’s a loaded question isn’t it?

At my age I hope one answer would be that I am still alive, still capable of functional thought and action but there are days I have my doubts about that one. Not so much the alive part but the functional part.

As a wife, there are days I have my doubts in this arena also. Shocking revelation to many readers here but please don’t read more into this than I am able to comprehend myself at this point in time. He goes one way, I go another and what that means for either of our futures I really don’t know. I do find myself asking the question, “Did we ever have anything in common at all?” lately. Enough said on this one for now.

As a mother, I hope that another child, or maybe two will have married; that there are more lovely grandchildren running amok in my life and that all of these various components are happy, really truly happy.

As the student, well crap, I don’t even know where to head with that prediction. I am such an nontraditional student in the first place. Here is this woman, who at forty something decides to go to college to earn her degree. She gets the AA but then just can’t leave well enough alone and jumps into the process for her BA for no apparent reason other than she:

-likes education

-wants a challenge

-is maybe slightly masochistic

-is trying to prove a point? and to whom?

-is determined to reach a lifelong goal (Okay, I like that one)

The truth of the matter is that I have no intent of doing much at all with this degree once I have it. I simply could have taken every single one of these classes that have been a part of my life for the past few years as audit classes. But dammit, I realize that secretly, or maybe not so secretly, I wanted that piece of paper that has my name nicely printed in calligraphy smack dab in the middle with the nifty designation of Bachelor of Arts underneath it. If, by some cosmic alignment of universal force, someone  somewhere asks me to apply all this sociology that I am cramming into my brain cells in a practical sense, well then I just might do something with this degree once it is conferred. If not, then I have really truly been working for the last few years to simply finance my odd obsession with education.

Which brings me to the last role of significance worth mentioning here.

As the employed American worker, in 10 years I hope I am not employed. To my new boss, when you read this, please do not fire me on Monday. I still need a paycheck because I have not figured out my life quite yet. The excitement of the new changes in my professional life are intriguing, and actually fill me with a sense of renewal. I must be honest though. I have worked a long time. Not really long enough to retire but a long time. My ass is big enough. I don’t want to sit on it all day and watch daytime TV but I also can see the end of the employee journey getting closer.

That’s about as close as I can get to any 10 year predictions right now. If those brain cells of mine are still firing in 2022 maybe I’ll post an update so we can all see what actually happened.

I am still rather misty eyed even as I type this post. I have read the email twice and sent copies to her brother and sister. The agreement is that this is not the person who drove out of my driveway in her old duct taped Jeep just a few weeks ago.

The girl who left my house was academically mature but she was a girl. This person, the one who sent this email is turning into a competent woman who absolutely loves what she is doing. Love isn’t strong enough a description. She is passionate about what she is doing. She is interacting with fellow future and current archaeologists, speaking about culture and history and times that I know nothing about but that she revels in.

She has taken side trips and excursions out of camp both academically planned and with her fellow students. She reported a large group spent the weekend camping completely under the stars and spelunking in a lava tube. (I am tearing up a little again) She has collected samples to bring back to her own college here and use in her research work.

Not knowing this person, I’m sure it can be hard for anyone reading this to understand or comprehend the emotion here but as a parent who so wants each of her children to not only be successful but love what they do, this email has assured me that her road is firmly set. Give her a trowel, a tent, a grid and she will be content anywhere for the rest of her life.

She posted this picture on Facebook and noted that this is what she sees each and every morning when she wakes at dawn to begin the days dig:

Another completely uncharacteristic thing that popped up in her email was the specific mention of just how handsome her dig partner is. This girl has never once in her 19 years noted (to me at least) even the slightest interest in the handsome factor of any male. Guys have always just been that other gender so to have a specific reference to this person’s appearance is really more than a passing comment.

Apparently they ended up arriving at camp at the same time, both early and before the rest of the crew, and must have hit it off right away. She said they have a great location for their dig site and have, thanks to Mike, rigged a nice tarp system to keep them in the shade.

There is so much more that jumps out of her email, but I need to savor that for myself for a while. I was thinking just today about how quickly the time is going by, and how soon that she would be rolling back into my driveway in that duct taped Jeep. I am sure she is thinking the same thing but almost assuredly no where near as anxious to point that Jeep back in the direction of Washington.

I can’t truly imagine what she must be feeling to be experiencing such a life changing event but I am oh so happy for her while at the same time dealing with that twinge of longing for my baby to stop growing up, pull her Jeep into its familiar spot and stay little just a bit longer.